The Scarlet Contessa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  It was to be an intimate event. Situated in a corner tower, Galeazzo’s private dining chamber had an unusually high vaulted ceiling; the stone floors were covered in Persian carpets in shades of scarlet, pine, and gold to mute the echoing tread of servants and the clatter of goblets and plates. Two arched windows faced north and east; these were shuttered that morning to keep out prying eyes and the bitter cold, and the great hearth contained such a fierce crackling blaze that I began to sweat the instant I entered the room. A pair of large tapestries covered the walls on either side of the eastern window, and the bare walls had been painted with trellises of flowers. But what was most remarkable, to my mind, were the eight long oval mirrors—four hung on the wall behind the table, four on the wall in front—that allowed the duke to see his reflection’s reflection, as well as those of everyone in front of or behind him. These, combined with his four tasters—who sampled everything before it appeared on Galeazzo’s plate or in his cup—gave him some measure of comfort, for even he realized that he had earned many enemies.

  Lorenzo was waiting when we women arrived, an hour before midday. He wore a great smile that emphasized his jutting lower jaw by revealing his bottom row of teeth, yet it somehow served to ease his ugliness. That morning, he was unaccompanied and dressed in a plain, long tunic of gray wool. He wore no jewelry, nor had his straight locks felt the kiss of a curling iron. Yet when Bona’s arrival was announced, he bowed and kissed her extended hand with a seasoned courtier’s finesse; though he presented himself as a commoner, his confidence and self-possession marked him as an equal. Caterina, too, was announced and received a similar reception. I entered silently, to no fanfare, and expected no greeting, but Lorenzo bowed deeply to me, and when I responded with a curtsy, said warmly, “Dea, isn’t it? The wife of Matteo da Prato?”

  “I am,” I said, blushing. I was unaccustomed to being acknowledged by anyone save Bona.

  “I am an acquaintance of your husband’s,” he said. “I have known him for many years. It was I, in fact, who recommended him to the duke for employment.”

  Tongue-tied in the face of his composure and charm, I had no response.

  Duke Galeazzo was late, requiring Bona and Lorenzo to engage in small talk for half an hour. Galeazzo’s secretary and right-hand man, the thick-necked, burly Cicco Simonetta, arrived first. With his peasant’s hair—long on top, cropped sharply above his oddly small ears—and round, heavy face, Cicco could easily have been mistaken for an ignorant bumpkin were it not for his fine dress and the shrewdness in his eyes. The duke kept no secrets from Cicco, who greeted Lorenzo with no smile and much reticence.

  After the silent appearance of three sullen, armed bodyguards, and the emergence of attendants and the ducal cupbearer from the kitchen, Galeazzo arrived—without the usual blare of trumpets, given that Lorenzo’s arrival was to be known by as few residents of Castle Pavia as possible. The duke’s pride, however, required that his entry be accompanied by the sung praises of one of the castrated tenors who had entertained us in Bona’s chamber the day before.

  A month shy of his thirty-third birthday, Galeazzo Maria was in his prime. Like all the Sforza, he was sturdy, muscular, and passionately devoted to sport. His tunic, of gray-green watered silk embroidered with bronze fleur-de-lis, with white ermine trim at the collar, was tailored to show off a powerful chest and shoulders. His cap of light reddish brown hair was cut in layers, long enough to cover his ears but too short to touch his collar; as was the fashion, carefully crimped curls framed his face. The latter was dominated by a strong nose, so badly broken in his youth that the bridge had a large bump. His green eyes were deep set, round, and ringed by shadows, his lips thin and permanently pursed in an arrogant sneer.

  This was the man who had ordered one of his enemies to be nailed to his coffin before being buried alive; who had, instead of showing generosity to a starving peasant who dared catch a hare in the hunting park, killed him by forcing him to swallow the unskinned animal whole; and who had, in a spasm of jealousy, chopped off the hands of a courtier who had caressed one of Galeazzo’s former lovers. The duke had been born not to heartless parents but to a brave warrior, Francesco Sforza, and a proud, strong-willed but charitable woman, Bianca Maria Visconti, daughter of the Duke of Milan. His parents were much loved, and as their eldest son grew to maturity, they were perplexed by his arrogance and cruelty. When his father died and Galeazzo claimed the duchy, he resisted his mother’s advice; she died of a mysterious fever—or poison, some say, on the order of her own son.

  As the singer’s voice faded, Galeazzo glared at his wife and jerked his chin in my direction. “What is she doing here? I wanted as few people as possible to know of this!”

  I stared intently at the carpet while Bona stammered.

  Lorenzo interjected smoothly, “It is on my account, Your Grace; do you recall? I disturbed the three of them at prayer yesterday, and wished to make my apologies to each one today.”

  Galeazzo frowned; the weather had kept him from the hunt, which added to his usual irritability. I feared he would lose his temper at the subtle reference to yesterday’s incident with the screaming young woman. The sight of Lorenzo, however, distracted him enough so that he gave a small, tight smile.

  “Good Lorenzo! How do you fare?”

  “Well, Your Grace,” Lorenzo replied, “especially when I am surrounded by such lovely women.” He gestured at us three.

  Galeazzo’s smile widened at the compliment. “She is beautiful, is she not?” he asked proudly, and went to take his daughter Caterina’s hand. He kissed her on the lips, after which Caterina curtsied and shot the rest of us a gloating glance.

  The duke moved to Lorenzo next. The two clasped hands and slapped each other upon the shoulder with more affection than I had ever seen the duke show his brothers. Milan and Florence were solid allies; Lorenzo’s grandfather, Cosimo, had supported Galeazzo’s father’s claim to the duchy of Milan.

  Questioning Lorenzo about his journey from more temperate Florence through the freezing weather, the duke passed by his wife with a careless nod, and took no further notice of me. As he moved toward the massive ebony table—carved, at the top of each leg, with the symbol of the Sforza, of a dragon-headed serpent swallowing a naked child—a servant scrambled to pull out the tallest chair for him. He settled against the red leather padding and snapped his fingers; instantly, his cupbearer leaned forward and set an amethyst-studded golden goblet into the duke’s waiting hand. Galeazzo told each of us where to sit: Lorenzo on his right, the silent, stolid Cicco on his left. Bona sat directly across from her husband; Caterina sat to her left, facing Lorenzo, while I sat on Bona’s right.

  A pair of servants hurried to light the tapers in two heavy candelabra upon the table; Galeazzo turned to one of them. “Bring the wine now, and the food; besides, I’m hungry, and Lorenzo cannot tarry.” He looked back at Bona. “Once we have eaten, you women must depart; we men have private business to discuss.”

  “Then with your leave, Your Grace,” Lorenzo said, “I should like to present Her Grace the Lady Bona with a gift, for her hospitality, with hopes that it will ease some of the difficulties I have caused her.”

  If Galeazzo was angered or insulted by Lorenzo’s second veiled reference to the violated woman, he did not show it. He nodded, faintly bored, and watched as Lorenzo reached into the pocket of his tunic and produced a box of red velvet studded with tiny diamonds.

  “For you, Your Grace,” he said to Bona, and smiling, rose slightly in order to hand it to her across the table. “I pray this humble gift pleases you.”

  Bona forgot her embarrassment and beamed. “Your Magnificence,” she said, “dear Lorenzo, no guest of mine has ever been more welcome . . . or more gracious.” She took it from him and held the box so that the gold embroidery and the diamonds glittered in the candlelight. “How very handsome.”

  “Look inside, Your Grace,” Lorenzo prompted.

  Carefully, the duchess opened the lid. Inside, tied
together with a silk ribbon, was a thick rectangular object, slightly longer and broader than Bona’s hand; she lifted it out of the box, revealing a deck of cards made of thick parchment coated with white gesso and painted.

  She did her best to mask her response, but I knew that she did not approve of playing cards. She forced a smile as she undid the ribbon. I stared with her at the backs, prettily illustrated with flowers and vases, and bordered by angels.

  “They’re lovely,” she said to Lorenzo. “Thank you.”

  “Turn it over,” Caterina said impatiently.

  She did, and like Caterina, let go a slight gasp of amazement at the sight.

  The front side of the card was covered in gold leaf, which had been painstakingly etched with numerous fine geometric designs; the texture made the bright gold flash with reflected light. Upon this dazzling backdrop was painted the image of a pauper, a young, wide-eyed man barefoot and dressed in tatters, with a walking stick resting against one shoulder. He stood on the very edge of a dark chasm; emerald and sapphire hills sprawled out behind him.

  Bona began to set the cards out in front of her, one by one. “But these are beautiful,” she breathed.

  “I know of your love for illustrated manuscripts,” Lorenzo explained. “I had hoped that these might please you. That one is the first in the deck; he is called the Fool.”

  Galeazzo let go a laugh. “I know of these!” he said. “These are triumph cards. Oh, I will dazzle my companions with these!” He lowered his voice and winked slyly at Lorenzo. “Yet another way for me to lose money at the gambling table!”

  The duchess tensed; Lorenzo saw, and said diplomatically to Galeazzo, “It’s true, my lord, that these are triumph cards. Yet this deck is special. Some would prefer to use it for more serious pursuits.”

  Galeazzo scowled in puzzlement. “Such as?”

  “Seeing the future.”

  The duke lifted a brow and peered down at the cards with renewed interest. “Really?”

  Beneath the table, Bona clenched one fist; only I could see, and only I knew that she wanted to cross herself out of fear. “These are devilish,” she whispered, so faintly that I was surprised that Lorenzo heard.

  “Far from it, Your Grace,” he told her. “They reveal what God wishes us to see of the future, that he may deal more directly with our souls. Yet they could, I suppose, be misused by those with evil in their hearts.”

  He said more, but I did not hear it, for Bona had just turned over the twelfth card. I found myself staring down at the image of a man suspended upside down from a rope bound to his ankle. His hands were hid, helpless, behind his back, and his unbound leg was bent at the knee and crossed behind the other, to form an upside-down numeral four.

  I was too riveted to stop myself from reaching for the card, from taking it and holding it before my eyes. At the time, I could not see the painting on the card of a man with golden curls; instead I saw Matteo, with his dark auburn hair falling straight beneath his head. On the card, the man’s eyes were dark and open, but I saw only Matteo’s eyes, shut, his features white and deathly still. Matteo, limp and dying . . .

  It was the image I had read in the stars, in the fire. Despite the blazing hearth, I grew cold. Matteo was in danger of dying, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

  “Dea,” Bona said sharply in my ear, and snatched the card from my grasp. I looked up and realized that the others had been speaking for some time; I had been somewhere else entirely. In the interim, the soup had magically arrived; a plate sat steaming in front of me.

  Lorenzo was studying me intently. “Madonna Dea,” he asked softly, “what do you see?”

  “My husband,” I murmured, stricken.

  He reached across the table and set a long, tapered finger down, pointing to the card. “This is called the Hanged Man. Yet you can see, he does not struggle.” Surrender to evil forces, I imagined him saying, though he uttered not another word, with the intent of sacrifice.

  “Does she see things in the cards?” the duke called gaily over Lorenzo. “Can she tell our future, then?” Ignoring Bona’s tense expression, Galeazzo pointed at me. “Gather them up,” he directed. “Mix them, and choose our futures.” He chuckled. “No gambling, so long as the ladies are here.”

  Bona had stiffened in her chair, but she handed me the deck; Caterina’s eyes were gleaming with curiosity and amusement at her and my discomfort. Galeazzo snapped his fingers again, and with a gesture, bade a servant clear away my plate.

  The cards were overlarge, unwieldy, stiff from the gesso plaster. I had expected them to be cool to the touch, yet they were warm in my hands, as if they were living things. I stared down at the table’s ebony surface, polished to a reflective sheen, and felt the present melt away.

  I set them down and fanned them out facedown upon the ebony. They were too stiff to be shuffled, so I moved them about, again and again, until it was impossible to identify the cards that Bona had turned over earlier. When I was satisfied, I gathered them together and fanned them out again, and said to Galeazzo, “Your Grace, choose one card.”

  He shot an excited glance at Lorenzo and grinned, then indicated his choice by pointing. I took the card and pushed it slightly toward him but decided that it was not yet time to reveal it.

  “Now His Magnificence,” the duke said.

  Lorenzo’s smile was encouraging as he met my gaze. It was unsettling to encounter a stranger who was exposing my ability to recognize portents, yet I trusted him. He reached out and tapped the wood near his chosen card.

  I pushed it from the deck toward him. Cicco, as always carefully appraising the others without revealing his own feelings, accepted a card without comment.

  “Would it please Your Grace for the ladies each to have one, as well?” Lorenzo asked with consummate politeness.

  Galeazzo gave a loud sniff of impatience, but nodded to me. I shifted in my chair toward Bona, but the duchess gently shook her head.

  “The cards are exquisite,” she said sweetly, “and I shall treasure them always, just as I shall treasure my friendship with the magnificent Lorenzo. But I am content to wait upon God to reveal the future in His own good time.”

  Galeazzo scowled at her and clicked his tongue. “Come now, don’t spoil our fun!” His temper was rising, and he would have lashed out at his wife had Caterina not interrupted.

  “One for me then! One for me!”

  Lorenzo said cheerfully, “It seems, Your Grace, that the young lady does not wish to be kept waiting.”

  The duke sighed, yielding, and gestured for me to give his impatient daughter a card. I set it down and pushed it in Caterina’s direction. Rather than wait for the others, she reached out and turned her card over immediately. As she stared down at it, her expression soured. “But it is only the Fool! I want another!”

  Lorenzo looked to me before saying, very softly, “It can be a good card, Madonna Caterina. You might not want to dismiss it.”

  I studied it. The Fool’s eyes were fearless and innocent, his posture unguarded. He was on the verge of a long and tumultuous experience, ignorant as a child of the perils awaiting him. He might well decide to turn and head for the serene mountains behind him, in which case, he could reach the highest pinnacle—or he could just as well take a single step forward and fall into the dark, yawning chasm.

  “A long journey awaits you,” I said. Caterina leaned past Bona, the better to see and hear me. Expression avid, the girl propped an elbow on the table and rested her chin upon her hand; the long golden curls framing her face spilled forward and caught the light. “The most important journey of your life,” I continued. “Be cautious and reflective, lest you fall into danger.”

  She drew back, mollified. Aware that Lorenzo’s eyes were on me, I did not wait for his prompting, but drew one last card, for myself, and set it aside.

  Galeazzo was intrigued and once again smiling. “Let us go in ascending order now. Her card first”—he indicated me—“and then yours,
Lorenzo, and Cicco’s, and last of all, mine.”

  I turned over my card, and fell into the image, scarcely hearing Bona’s soft, shocked inhalation.

  I saw a woman dressed in flowing golden robes and cape and seated upon a throne. She wore a nun’s white wimple, and upon her head, unmistakably, rested the triple crown of the papal tiara; in one hand, she held a holy book, in the other, a long staff atop which rested a large gold cross.

  She was a female pope, a papess—a scandalous image, yet I was not in the least appalled. I trusted her, with the same unreasoning certainty I trusted Lorenzo. I stared at the landscape around her, seeking clues as to where I might find her; a green, carefully tended orchard lay in the distance behind her.

  I must have stared for some time, but my reverie was interrupted by a sharp pain in my shin as Caterina kicked me beneath the table.

  “She is . . .” I began, and searched desperately for a word that would not offend Bona; papess was out of the question, as was priestess. Finally I said, “The Abbess. She holds much wise spiritual advice.”

  Lorenzo’s card was the male version of mine—a white-haired, bearded man wearing the gold papal crown, with a gold cross atop his staff. But the card had been accidentally turned upside down, and at the sight of it, I felt a thrill of fear.

  Lorenzo’s homely face grew solemn as he gazed upon it. “The pope, ill-dignified,” he said.

  I stared back at it, too, and saw a thousand fleeting things, too numerous to give voice to: an old, vengeful man weeping over a dead son, the swirl of frankincense, the glint of a blade, a spray of blood, an oddly familiar voice sighing, Lorenzo . . . My fear must have been visible, for when I looked up again, the women were wide-eyed and silent, and Galeazzo, though frowning, was chastened.

  I struggled to put all that I had seen into words. “There is vengeance here,” I said, “and sorrow, and great treachery. You must take care, or there will be blood.”

  Bona crossed herself; the duke and Lorenzo shared a troubled, knowing glance. “I know how to deal with the matter now,” Lorenzo said, his tone firmly optimistic; I felt his words were not so much true as intended to comfort Duke Galeazzo. “I will take care. Thank you, Madonna Dea.”